Stopping It
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: "People might be able to imitate faces, clothing and even posture and movements, but not the scent of a person..." John Watson asked Sherlock to stop being dead. Sherlock asks himself how to break the news to his best friend and how he is going to react. Emotions are not what Sherlock is best at, after all, so John is not the only one who's going to be surprised. Post-Reichenbach.


**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes**: Hey there, after watching _Sherlock_ for the hundredth time I still couldn´t get enough of it and began to write down bits and pieces, which then developed into a few longer pieces, the first of which you can read here.

**Only read on if you have watched _The Reichenbach Fall_ already:** This is another one of the "Sherlock comes back" stories; it doesn´t try to explain how he faked his death, it mainly deals with how John reacts. The story is set two months after the last episode. Please note that there are spoilers for it.

I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

And now: enjoy!

o o o

**Stopping it**

o o o

Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin and stared ahead, unseeingly. He had not expected the situation to get out of his hands so quickly. _Severely_. It had not taken him long to formulate the plan in his mind, and thankfully, just for once Molly had stopped fussing and had actually been able to help him without her usual blur of insecurities. He had had it all under control, even Moriarty. But now. The world believed he was dead, which was something that did not bother him. He had been declared a fraud, which _did_ bother him, and greatly at that. Yet the most disturbing fact remained that for everything which could have gone wrong, there was only one fault, one thing that was making Sherlock reconsider if he had decided rightly in faking his death.

John Watson. Sherlock had been watching him, and it seemed that the doctor had taken the alleged suicide much harder than expected. And for some reason, some stupid, inane, inexplicable reason, Sherlock was not only bothered by that, but felt very bad about it. No, he thought, briefly shaking his head; if he was honest, there was more. Stupid emotions; never easily handled, complicated everything and always turned up in packs.

As much as Sherlock loathed to admit it, he felt guilty. John Watson probably was the only person who still believed in the world´s only consulting detective, who was convinced of his innocence. Well. And who still counted himself not only Sherlock´s best friend, but had, in a moment of purest despair, actually _ordered_ his friend to stop being dead.

Sherlock shook his head once more. It was a risk, telling John the truth. But on the other hand- if he could not tell John, then he might as well _stay_ dead.

He got up from his chair rather abruptly, feeling unexpectedly elated by the thought of meeting John, of talking to him again. Of being together in one room with him. He wondered where this assault of sentimental thoughts was coming from. He certainly did not _miss_ John, did he? But now that it was decided, another problem presented itself: _how_?

How should he tell John that he, along with the rest of the world, had been fooled? Sherlock sat down again, momentarily deflated. It had been two months now, a long time for someone who was grieving. And a long time for someone who was watching it, unable to provide any relief.

Sherlock was aware that he could not simply walk into John´s flat. The good doctor would probably punch him and never talk to him again, once he had overcome his shock and surprise. The world might stop turning.

A letter? Too complicated. Besides, it took too long to write his thoughts down.

Sherlock got up again: a video-call!

No, stupid. And John would very likely either not believe it was genuine, or simply faint.

He sat down again. Damn it, other people were so easily manipulated, why did _this_ prove so difficult? Not that Sherlock hadn´t manipulated John a lot of times, but that had been necessary and sometimes for the doctor´s own good. Or, in the case of Baskerville, for the sake of science.

In the end, Sherlock decided to text him. He took out his mobile phone, deliberately ignoring the slight tremor in his hand, and after some consideration, punched in his text:

I´m stopping, as ordered. SH

After he had sent it, Sherlock nervously fiddled with the phone. What if John had gotten a new number? What if he thought this was joke as well, a rather cruel one at that? What if he simply chose not to answer? Hissing, Sherlock got up again, agitated; he should have thought it through more thoroughly.

His phone trilled. Sherlock jerked before pressing on the button:

_This supposed to be a joke? JW_

Relief and anxiety washed over Sherlock as he wrote a reply:

No. I don´t make jokes, not even now. SH

_So I am to believe that SH has survived? JW_

Yes. Faking my death was the only way to end Moriarty´s game. SH

_I don´t believe you, whoever you are. This is in bad taste, stop texting me. JW_

Sherlock swore in frustration. There was only one way to make John believe. With still trembling fingers he pressed "call". He almost expected John not to answer, but after five or six ringtones there he was, sounding breathless and angry: "Listen, I told you to stop texting me, which was clearly not meant as an invitation to _phone_ me instead!"

His voice was trembling, and for some reason, Sherlock all of a sudden was as well. He felt short of breath himself as he spoke, and for a moment it seemed impossible at all. He had to muster all his composure to bring out the one word: "John."

He could hear something like a hiss at the other end, then it went quiet. Awfully quiet, and it took a while until John had himself sufficiently under control to reply: "S-sherl- Sherlock..." He sounded strangled, too far away. "How- who-"

Sherlock closed his eyes. John still did not believe him, and for God´s sake, why was it suddenly so hard to think of the right words to say?

"John, it´s really me. I´m... I´m sorry." There, he had said it. "I´m so sorry. I had to let everyone think I was dead. In fact, all the others still do. But you... I couldn´t..." Just then, as he heard a quiet sob at the other end of the line, his voice gave out. Were there tears in his eyes? Surely he was just imagining it, because he had suddenly become so bloody _emotional_ (which by all means was John´s doing, of course).

John could not help the tears which were threatening to flow freely as he tried to at least subdue the sobs, so as to listen properly to the voice at the other end. _His_ voice. He had not expected to hear it again. Oh, he had been hoping, of course, that somehow, it would all turn out to be a bad dream, a forgery, a joke.

Only when, after endless days of sitting alone in the flat, waiting, he had been forced to realize that Sherlock would indeed never again come in through that door, or play the violin by the window, or, for crying out loud, shoot at the wall, had he given up hope. If his friend had still been alive, he would have let John know, he was certain about that.

And it was only with that thought in mind that he had tried to clear out Sherlock´s wardrobe. It hadn´t been his idea; he would probably have left it as it was, so long as Mrs. Hudson didn´t complain. Yet one day Mycroft had called him, asking whether he should send a team over to Baker Street. A _team_. The thought of strangers touching his best friend´s personal belongings was inconceivable, therefore John rejected the offer in order to do it himself. He couldn´t leave it to Mrs. Hudson either, after all.

He would probably always remember the eerie feeling of entering Sherlock´s deserted bedroom. It had been the only room Sherlock had made a point of keeping orderly, as opposed to the rest of the flat. Forcing himself to function, John opened the wardrobe and just stood there for a moment, feeling fresh grief flooding his heart as Sherlock´s unique scent, which was lingering in his clothes, flooded his senses.

His knees gave out under him, and he found himself on the floor, weeping for the friend he had lost. He did not touch anything when the tears subsided a while later, just closed the door again and backed out of the room, feeling horribly bereft again.

Afterwards, he could not bear to stay in Baker Street 221B any longer, as much as he loathed to abandon Mrs. Hudson, feeling like a traitor. It was too much, the walls were practically _breathing_ Sherlock, he was everywhere. So he left, and a piece of his soul stayed behind. He hadn´t carried on with his blog for similar reasons; he had tried, his fingers had hovered above the keyboard uselessly though, and it just was not the same without Sherlock commenting over his shoulder. So John had only written one thing: _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_. And afterwards, he did not touch the computer again.

To hear Sherlock´s voice now, to receive _text_ messages from him, for Christ´s sake, felt like staring into an abyss. That _voice_! Who knew how to pull his strings like that? Who had the technical means to do so? Moriarty was dead, wasn´t he? Or had he come back from the dead to haunt him? But if that was possible, it was also possible for Sherlock, wasn´t it? Unless...

"How can I know that it really _is_ you?" he whispered when he finally had his voice under control.

The voice on the other end released a somewhat choked breath: "Meet me," it said, a little hoarse, "Baker Street. In an hour."

**o**

And now John was standing in front of the familiar door and couldn´t bring himself to open it. He still had the keys, of course, but his arms felt like lead. His mind was reeling; what if Sherlock was alive after all? His heart started to beat faster at the thought. But what if he wasn´t? What if someone had used him as a means- John snorted derisively, forcing himself to stop mulling the same thought over and over again. It didn´t make any sense, there wasn´t anyone after him. The only one who had been, James Moriarty, was dead, as Lestrade had ascertained him. Had subsequently been celebrated as a bloody hero, a martyr of sorts, by the tabloids; the hysteria was only just starting to die down. How the bastard would have loved it all! John ground his teeth at the idea. Fuelled by his anger, he finally fished his keys out of his pocket and let himself in.

It truly was like coming home. For a moment, he stood, inhaling the comforting scent of 221B Baker Street. If he closed his eyes, he might be able to forget the last two months and pretend everything was all right. Only it wasn´t. It would hit him even harder to find the upstairs flat empty. To distract himself, he looked at his watch: he still had some minutes left. Bracing himself, he pulled his gun out of his jacket and began to ascend the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson didn´t seem to be home, as the house was very quiet. John avoided those steps which were creaking and silently approached the living room door. Of course, anyone who´d want to ambush him would have watched him even as he stepped out of the cab, but for some reason, he felt that this cautiousness was necessary. His heart was positively racing now; whether due to nervousness or persevering denial, he couldn´t tell. He stopped to listen, but apart from the low tick tock of Mrs. Hudson´s grandfather clock in the hall there was no other sound. Not even the sound of someone trying not to breathe. The atmosphere seemed at ease, but John´s hair still stood on end, and he knew better than to drop his guard. Yet when he entered the living room, he nearly dropped his gun.

There, in his favourite chair, nonchalantly defying time and space, sat Sherlock Holmes.

John paled, instinctly spinning around to see if there was anyone else, _anything _to explain this madness. He stared at Sherlock, trembling and shocked, undecided whether he should run or pinch himself or scream, and his knees felt like pudding. It must be a mask, he thought, a very good mask, but _why_, and _how_, and oh God, _Sherlock_...

He swayed, feeling as though someone had punched him in the stomach.

Sherlock slowly got to his feet: "John- John, look at me."

John, his weapon still trained on the other man, was positively shaking now. "Who _are_ you?" he managed to ask. "Why are you doing this?" His voice was choked and had a hysterical edge to it.

Sherlock slowly approached him: "Look at me, for heaven´s sake," he said, equally trembling. He had not expected this to be _so_ hard on John. Or on himself, for that matter. He felt like an arse, a complete, bloody, unworthy arse. Yes, he had had a reason. But had he not always been able to trust John? Had John not been on his side steadfastly right from the beginning, when he had saved Sherlock from his own ego?

He had trouble not to falter now. Yet if he did, John might as well, and Sherlock felt that he could not wait to set things right between them for only one more minute.

He had nearly reached his friend, who was staring at him as if he was a ghost. Well, he was, in a way.

"John," he repeated. "Please." His voice threatened to give out, as did John´s energy. The weapon dropped, but John did not care. He felt as though he could not go on, and if this was an act, a horribly brilliant act by an evil person of unknown origin, fine, so be it. His shoulders drooped as his knees finally decided not to function any longer, and he closed his eyes. He didn´t care anymore, he just wanted this whole continuous nightmare to end. But then there was something new; arms which supported his exhausted frame, a long, lean body against his own, and _Sherlock_. Sherlock.

John inhaled deeply; people might be able to imitate faces, clothing and even posture and movements, but not the scent of a person. A sob escaped John as he wrapped his arms around his friend, returning the embrace. They clung to each other for an unaccounted amount of time, weeping.

At one point, they sank down onto the floor, still not letting go of each other. It was getting dark when they finally calmed down, and even then, John needed to touch Sherlock, to feel that he was breathing; his hands were clutching Sherlock´s arms.

"_How_ ?," he asked, looking his friend over. It seemed as though they had never been apart, Sherlock appeared completely unaltered. He even wore his coat. John shuddered, blinking away pictures of Sherlock´s bloodied face, of a pool of blood on the pavement- "_How?_ " he asked, again, feeling his raw nerves on his tongue, unable to keep them from slipping out of control. "How did you- I mean, _look _at you, you even have your coat! You are dead, you _were_ dead! I saw you! I- bloody hell, Sherlock, do you know what that felt like, seeing you there? You were dead and there was so much blood and your eyes- and I- they wouldn´t let me-"

His voice momentarily gave out, but he continued anyway, in a hoarse, hiccup-y kind of speech: "How could you do that, _why_, for heaven´s sake, what could possibly have compelled you to hurt us all so _much_? Do you have _any_ idea how it feels to see your best friend dead, and oh, all the blood, I had nightmares about it, _I still do_, and now you suddenly _text _me and call me and without any warning are back?"

John was vaguely aware that he very possibly sounded like a madman, but the words simply tumbled out. "I hated you for what you did," he added wearily, sounding rather deflated after the worst of his anger was oozing away. Sherlock hadn´t even tried to interrupt him, and even in the dim light John saw that he looked sad and guilty and unhappy all at once.

"I didn´t have a choice, John," he eventually said. "You do have any right to hate me. But maybe, after I have explained everything to you, you will accept my apologies. I meant it when I said I was sorry. Because I am. I know how much- I know how hard it was for you. And it was for me as well, believe me. Yet I couldn´t tell anyone, and I haven´t told anyone else. I won´t tell anyone else. Only you."

John looked down, forcing himself to breathe calmly; it only slowly began to sink in that the nightmare was over. It still wasn´t okay, _he_wasn´t okay, far from it in fact, but for the first time in two months the bone-deep desperation which had settled in his soul was beginning to lift. He could look ahead now again, something which he hadn´t had for too long.

"You said goodbye," he began, trying to comprehend.

"And you said _stop it_ and here I am." The smallest of smiles was tugging at the corners of Sherlock´s mouth.

John huffed, torn between amusement and fresh anger, but then the realization what Sherlock had just said overwhelmed him.

"It´s really you," he murmured, meeting Sherlock´s gaze. "This doesn´t make sense but then, that´s you." He shivered, an aftermath from his breakdown. "Sherlock."

"John."

"Do you know who´s our current prime minister?"

"What?"

"Just answer me. Do you?"

"You perfectly well know that I don´t- might be Mycroft for all I care."

John began to laugh, a quiet, liberated laugh that gained momentum as he regarded Sherlock´s genuinely confused expression.

Sherlock didn´t quite get what was so funny about it, but he was relieved. The world had not stopped turning.

They would sort it out: the remains of Moriarty´s web, Sherlock´s ruined reputation, Mrs. Hudson- well, she might prove to be the biggest problem, he mused. The word _wrath_ came to his mind.

Yet all that could wait. For now, he was content with watching John wiping his eyes and actually smiling; tears of grief had been replaced by tears of mirth. Sherlock for once didn´t mind that John had been laughing about his ignorance of certain aspects of the world. He believed in Sherlock, after all.

"I missed you," the detective eventually said, surprised by how easy the words were coming to him; usually, he found it hard to express his true feelings, after all.

John´s smile never faded, though it somehow stepped into the background, making way for a more serious if fond expression as the doctor beheld his friend, contemplating: "I missed you, too."

**o o o**

**The End**

**Additional author´s notes:  
**In the books, Sherlock needs three years to take down Moriarty´s web, I believe. Since Sherlock is set in modern times, I don´t think he´d need that long nowadays, and Mycroft (I´m convinced he knows that Sherlock is still alive) or his connections might be of help. Anyway, thank you for reading.


End file.
